You Can Pour Your Heart Out Around 3 O'clock
by redemptionofjames
Summary: It's a bit like what you thought love would be like... but it isn't. Not at all. Not really. Lily/James oneshot.


**A/N: **one shot featuring Lily and James. Takes place the summer they graduate, I suppose. Doesn't really matter. Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Title by Arctic Monkeys.

_you can pour your heart out around 3 o'clock_

If you're close enough to her, you can count every freckle.

It's a bit like a miniature galaxy has exploded across her face, only in this galaxy the stars are slightly darker than their albion background.

If you're close enough to her, you love every freckle.

It's a bit like what you think people ought to say when they're in love. I love every part of you. Every eyelash, every freckle. Every word that rolls off your perfect lips.

She likes words, Lily does. Maybe that's why she uses them so much. But you think it's mostly because she just has a lot to say. You do too.

The word she's saying right now is your name.

Of course, Lily would tell you that names don't really count as words. You would disagree. Then you would argue. And then laugh. What a foolish thing to argue about, she might say, flopping down next to you on the grass.

It's a bit like how you think couples in love ought to fit together like pieces of a puzzle… but not quite. You can feel Lily's elbow and shoulder blades. They dig into your stomach, arm, chest. But it doesn't hurt, and it isn't uncomfortable. You're used to it. It's Lily, the feel of her, it's Lily and you love every part of her. Every elbow, every shoulder blade. Every eyelash, every freckle.

You fiddle with a strand of hair. It's dark red and that probably means it ought to be compared to fire, but to you it's just Lily's hair.

It's a bit like how you think someone in love ought to have a favourite thing about their loved one. Their hair- fire- or their eyes- emeralds- or the way her laugh is like the tinkling of a bell. But you don't have a favourite thing. You love all of her. She's Lily, and you love every part of her. I love every part of you, Lily. Every eyelash, every freckle. Every summer-rainstorm-laugh and every fresh fern leaf in your gaze. Every solar flare in your hair.

I love you, Lily.

She takes that, considers it solemnly as if it were something deep and philosophical. It's not. You don't think so, anyway.

It's a bit like how you thought love ought to be something vast, complicated, unattainable.

That was what you thought about love before you were in it, anyway.

Love's not a tragedy, you tell her. The stories make it seem like it is but it isn't. People always think that when you love someone you need something back to show for it.

She's quiet. When she's thinking, she's quiet.

I don't think so, though, you continue. Loving someone is just absolute care, isn't it?

Grass tickles her nose.

It shouldn't be about who loves and who doesn't, you say. You've lost track of your meaning a bit. Maybe you're drunk. Are you drunk? Seems a bit early for that.

I want you to be happy, you tell her. I want you to be alive and to be happy and that's because I love you.

A dragonfly passes above.

She likes insects. A lot of girls are scared of them, but not her. She says insects are beautiful and sad because they burst into life and then they die. They never have time to grow old.

If you could grow old with anybody, it would be her.

This isn't a fairytale love, you confess. For some reason, it feels like a confession.

Maybe she wanted it to be a fairytale love.

Crisp birdsong shocks the still air.

But she says, good. I don't want it to be a fairytale love.

It's a bit like when two people in love find a happily ever after. But it isn't like that. It's a life; it's two lives. It's when two lives run together instead of separate. Something like that, anyway.

I love your freckles, you say.

She laughs.

A white cloud crawls across flawless blue sky.

I love you too, she says.

You wonder how you got here, anyway.

You roll over and kiss her. Kissing her isn't a drug or a cosmic explosion. It's kissing Lily, that's all, but there's nothing else you prefer in the world.

The air smells like earth and grass and her.

Maybe someone in love ought to describe the smell of their loved one as flowers and fruits, but not you. Not her. She smells like Lily, that's all.

Your hands clasp somewhere in empty space. Her palm is not entirely smooth and not entirely cool. It's sweaty, just a little bit sticky. You love her palm.

A smile dances on her lips.

The sun warms you both.

It's a bit like when people in love ought to be worried, confused, overwhelmed- but it isn't. Not at all. Not anymore.

It's a bit like how people in love ought to have a sad ending- but it isn't. Not you. Not her.

Not yet.


End file.
